Of Chefs and Scones
by Luvandia
Summary: Oneshot AU. Arthur Kirkland is the son of the owner of a restaurant and self-proclaimed 'best chef in the world'. Alfred F. Jones is the son of a friend of the owner of said restaurant and self-proclaimed 'best waiter in the world'. USUK/UKUS


A/N: Luvandia here, with her very first Hetalia fanfiction~ It's USUK, although I like UKUS a tiny smidget better. Also, I hope the beginning isn't too confusing, because I tend to rant while describing actions. This was based on a picture I saw on deviantart, which can be seen here: _**sillyjasdero. deviantart. com**_** /art/Waiter-US-and-Chef-UK-276968345**

Also, don't fret! Apparently, one of the prompts in the picture is England being a world-class chef. No one shall die from his cooking. Maybe. So... ON WITH THE STORY.

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><p>Lovino Vargas and his brother Feliciano were searching for an exquisite restaurant that served only the finest cuisine. Honestly, Lovino would have rather stayed home and watched his sort-of-but-not-quite boyfriend Antonio's tomato plant grow, instead of accompanying his younger brother on his quest to eat, as he put it, 'all the food in the world, ve~'.<p>

That day, they had the wonderful (mis)fortune of coming across a small establishment, funded by the rather wealthy family of the chef working there. The staff working there generally seemed to have, between them and Chef Kirkland, a mutual respect between one another. They would do as he requested, and he would reward them for their efforts with a nice, fat paycheck at the end of each month. A close friend of the family, along with his son, had also found employment within the restaurant. They were treated the slightest bit better, and their paychecks were the slightest bit fatter, than the rest of the staff.

That day, the eatery was significantly empty. The rest of the staff, having nothing else to do, simply mingled around and made light conversation among themselves.

Lime curtains were draped over large glass panels that served as windows, standing out from and yet complimenting the cream-colored walls. Pure white sheets covered wooden tables. Around every table, in pairs, were red velvet seats that remained unoccupied - except for one, in the corner nearest to the kitchen. A figure with blonde hair sat, hunched over the table in intense concentration. His name was Alfred.

Alfred, the said son of the family friend, had been doodling exaggerated pictures of him saving the world onto small slips of paper, which were actually meant for him to take orders down on. Business was unusually low that day, and Arthur Kirkland wasn't piled up with orders, like he usually was, to whip up a great feast in a small amount of time. Therefore, he was feeling more lenient, eying Alfred disapprovingly, but doing not much else to save the pieces of paper, now filling up with sketches of various superheroes.

The bell attached to the front door jingled cheerfully, signalling to Arthur that he had to start preparing for the first-class food he was bound to make. Sending a slight glare to Alfred, who had taken his time standing up and ushering the duo to their seats, the chef retreated hastily back to his kitchen.

Alfred was the best waiter in the restaurant, not only blessed with confidence and an affable air around him, but also good looks and a charming smile. He was more than confident that he could take on the world if he had to, and with this in mind, he approached the rather angry-looking Italian and his brother once again, having had to gather up some fresh new papers to take their orders down on.

"How may I help you, gentleman and... uh, gentleman?" He grinned, hoping that the pissed Italian wouldn't bite his head off. He also had the strange urge to touch their peculiar hair curls, although he suspected that if he did, the Italian would really bite his head off. In more ways than one.

"You could help us by putting your shitty fuck face away-" Lovino started, but Feliciano frowned upon hearing the insult. "Fine, you order then!"

"Ve~!" Feliciano smiled brightly at the American waiter, hoping that he didn't feel offended by his brother's words. After all, his brother's potty mouth was generally how they got banned and/or kicked out from several high class restaurants that served food which Feliciano could actually hold in, without complaining. "We'd like some pasta~ Or pizza, that's good too! But then I can't decide between pasta or pizza, ve~! Pasta's the best but we haven't had pizza in a while either, so it's really hard to decide, but not as hard as the time-"

Alfred forced a smile, sensing a rant coming on. "How about both?"

"That could do too~!" The cheerful Italian's eyes shone excitedly.

Clicking his pen, Alfred began to scribble onto the papers. "Pasta... and.. Pizza... Right, anything else?"

The waiter realised his mistake as soon as Feliciano opened his mouth to speak again. Luckily or unluckily for him, Lovino slapped his hands over his brother's mouth and grumbled, "Just get us some fucking tomatoes too, bastard."

From Feliciano came a muffled "Ve~!"

Alfred quickly scribbled in a 'Tomato' and 'Ve~!' onto the paper, before bowing and saying he'd be right back with their orders.

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><p>Arthur had already been working on the pasta, stirring the contents of the rather large pot every few seconds, as he saw fit. He had already caught a glimpse of his latest customers, the (in)famous Vargas brothers. Several restaurant owners had heard of the duo, for they had paid a visit to almost every food shack in the area. The two were very well-known food critics (well, they weren't exactly working as food critics, but they both did a wonderful job of criticizing food), and only the best of the best managed to win their approval.<p>

This would be the biggest test of his culinary skills yet. He would have to appease the two beasts, and when he succeeded, he'd be officially one of the top chefs ever. If not, then.. well.. his pride and dignity would be at stake, and he'd be in the same group as the lower-class chefs, who obviously couldn't cook as well as he could.

Arthur had already known that the brothers would have ordered pasta, for even though their orders varied each and every time, the one item that stayed on their list of must-eats was their beloved spaghetti. It was a love so strong and deep for this kind of food, that even Arthur could relate their obsession to his own preference for scones.

"Hey, Artie! Order up!" Alfred shouted, bursting into the kitchen excitedly. His hands flailed about in a blur, greatly startling and annoying the British chef. However, to Arthur's amusement, Alfred immediately stopped as he laid his eyes upon what the chef had already started working on. "D-dude, how'd you know that those guys ordered pasta?"

Deciding to use this as an opportunity to impress the American, Arthur smirked a little. "Because I'm magical." Well, that came out wrong.

"Pfff-! Magical? Like those rainbow pony things you always talk about?" Alfred tried holding back his laughter, really, he did, but chuckles soon spilled from his lips without warning, further embarrassing the British man.

"S-sod off! They're unicorns, you git!" Arthur retorted, flushing bright red.

Honestly, Alfred could tell that Arthur was clearly trying (and very much failing) to earn his admiration with his 'psychic powers', or whatever it was that Arthur often claimed to have. To be frank, Alfred really did appreciate the effort that the poor Brit put in, but he could never resist messing with Arthur's head whenever he got the chance. It was just a part of his daily routine. It was just like breathing - necessary to survive, but always overlooked.

"Whatever you say, Artie," Alfred smirked, his dazzling blue eyes seeming to laugh at the situation. If he was trying to hide his amusement, he was very much failing, and only succeeding in getting Arthur more pissed off.

"Don't call me that, and just give me the damn order!"

For once, Alfred complied, hanging up the piece of paper on a pipe above Arthur's head. The pipe was used to transport water to the various taps and sinks in the restaurant, but was often used as an 'order rack' for convenience. Arthur only took quick glances at the paper, before continuing to stir the contents of the pot, a scowl permanently etched on his face. Alfred wasn't quite sure what would happen if the chef ever stopped stirring and mixing. Would the food burn? Would it explode? Would it start to smell like the six-month-old hamburger that he had once discovered under his bed?

The waiter shuddered at the horrible memory. He had learnt a very important lesson that day; always eat hamburgers right after you buy them, or they'll end up smelling worse than any dirty diaper a baby could make.

There was only silence in the air, with the occasional sound of meat, steaming on a pan. Alfred, never one for silence, decided to break the peace.

"Artieeeee, are you done yet?" he whined, pouting and impatient.

"No, I'm not, and anyone with proper eyes could see that. Now be quiet or I'll tape your mouth shut. _**Again**_," Arthur said in a monotone, as though he had been asked this question several times before and already had his answer to it burned into his memory. And he still had that pizza to work on...

"But Artieeeeee-!"

"Hush up, you!"

This went on for quite some time, before finally Arthur gave up wasting his time and Alfred had tired of the spat.

Arthur glanced at the rapidly cooling pasta in one corner of the kitchen, before focusing back on the meat and sauce that he was occupied with making. 'It's.. It's almost done, and finally, I'll be able to gain the Vargas stamp of approval and be recognised as a top chef', his voice ranted in his head. Of course, he hadn't the mind to consider that his cooking could have not been up to the brothers' tastes, for Arthur was quite big-headed when it came to his own culinary skills. If you asked _him_(no one ever did), he was obviously the best cook in the district.

Meanwhile, bored out of his mind was Alfred. Sure, Artie's eyebrows were fun to watch when he was having an internal debate with himself, perhaps showering himself with compliments or even daydreaming. But, even monster eyebrows (that were _really _cute when furrowed together while Arthur was flustered, but shh, Alfred said nothing about this) couldn't hold Alfred's attention forever.

Inspiration struck him at exactly the perfect moment, and Alfred quickly gathered a pen, before messily scrawling down his words onto a piece of paper.

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><p>"Hey, Artie! Order up!" Alfred grinned, even though he hadn't left the kitchen to take down whatever order he had.<p>

Arthur, having noticed this, wasn't impressed. "What is it, you buffoon?"

Still with that shit-eating grin on his face, Alfred pressed the piece of paper into Arthur's awaiting hands, their palms lightly caressing each other before Arthur pulled away with a blush. He immediately started to read it, holding the order up with one hand and stirring the pasta mix with the other.

_**ORDER**_

_**For Take-Out:**_

_**Arthur Kirkland**_

His arms fell limply to his side and Arthur felt his face burn with intense embarrassment. _Yes, yes, **yes**, _Arthur's mind screamed at him to say, but what came out of his mouth was slightly different.

"Y-you made me burn the pasta, stupid A-Alfred!"

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><p><em><strong>End<strong>_

A/N: In case you're wondering, they started making out in the kitchen and Feli and Lovi left, off to torture - I mean, grace other restaurant owners with their presence.


End file.
